The House of Mirrors
by Caput Inter Nubila
Summary: The Doctor and Rory find themselves in a dark forest, chased by an ancient enemy. Glowy fungi, bow ties, and timey-wimeyness abound.
1. Shortcut to Mushrooms

**The House of Mirrors**

Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, so any comments/critiques would be brilliant. Enjoy!

Summary: The Doctor and Rory find themselves in a dark forest, chased by an ancient enemy. Glowy fungi, bow ties, and timey-wimeyness abound.

* * *

Chapter 1: A Shortcut to Mushrooms

Mentally, Rory sulked. He consoled himself with the fact that his sulking was perfectly justifiable. Amy's flu made Rory irritated enough, but the Doctor, either overcome with concern for her health or once again in the throes of his impatient wanderlust, had placed her in the care of an Earth nurse for a few days. This left Rory wifeless and stuck in the TARDIS with quite possibly the world's—no, the universe's—most eccentric personality. The Doctor.

"Cheer up, Pond," came a voice from behind the machine's console. "She's in good hands."

"Good hands?" snapped Rory. "We had to go _underground_ to see the nurse. Actually, we don't know if she _is_ a nurse!"

"Nah, she isn't. But that doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter? Doctor, Amy's sick. You should've just let me take care of her! Does that woman even have medical training?"

"Mrs. Smith-Jones," the Doctor quipped, poking his head around the console.

"What?"

"Her name's Mrs. Smith-Jones. Nice girl. Smart. Good in a crisis. Mind you, though, she's got odd taste in blokes. And yes, she's got medical training."

Rory wasn't quite sure what to say. The Doctor generally had that effect on people. The Time Lord was impulsive, sure, but he wouldn't put Amy in harm's way. Well, not intentionally.

"Well…then…where're we off to next?" Rory finally stammered.

"The past!" announced the Doctor. "Need to nip over to the 16th century. There's a species of mushroom that died out 'round then. Devil's Tail, they call it. Exclusive to the forests of central Europe. Glows an amazing shade of blue on dark nights. And" –he paused for effect— "it's quite efficient at curing influenza."

Rory's mood instantly cleared. "But couldn't we have brought Amy?"

"Better not. Wild forests in the 1500's contain more things than glowing fungi, and some of them aren't quite as pleasant."

* * *

To say the midnight woods were dark would be a massive understatement. If it weren't for the light emanating from the police box, Rory wouldn't have been able to see to the end of his own nose. Beyond the reach of the TARDIS lamp, a suffocating, oppressive blackness enveloped the woods, and Rory found it far too easy to imagine malevolent creatures lurking within its depths. Arriving here, he could understand why the Doctor refused to bring Amy along. These woods were ominous enough to make anyone question their own sanity. Even as he watched, Rory swore he could see a dark shape flitting by at the edge of his vision.

Then the lamps went out.

"D…Doctor?" called Rory, trying not to topple over. "I can't see."

"Sorry, I've doused the lights," announced a voice to his left.

"What on Earth for!" Rory's voice cracked involuntarily.

"Well, the most efficient way to locate the mushrooms is by tracking their bioluminescent signatures, and in order to do that, I need no interference from other light sources." The Doctor's voice sounded closer now. And the darkness seemed more oppressive. Rory suppressed a shiver.

"What?" he asked.

ON HIS SHOULDER! Rory yelped.

"Shhh, that's my hand, you silly. Feel? Hand. My hand. There." The Doctor patted his shoulder. "Better? All right, good. Just go where I steer you and we'll be fine."

"Steer me? Where're we going? How can you see anything?"

"Yes; to the mushrooms; and I can't see any more than you can." Yet the Doctor unerringly led Rory through the forest, navigating around the trees.

"Wait, then how do you know where to go? Don't tell me you're _smelling_ your way around."

"Yeah, how'd you guess?"

"You're kidding me."

"Nope, I'm a veritable bloodhound. Mind your next step—there's a root."

"OW!"

"Told you."

"Doctor," said Rory, wincing slightly, "I still don't understand why we're doing this in total blackness and how we're going to find the mushrooms."

"You can't find glow-in-the-dark fungi by waving a light around, can you? We need things dark so we can see the glow."

"All right, then! Mind you, I'm not sure I like this, though. Sort of creepy."

"Yes," the Doctor agreed. "Doesn't sit well with me either. Hope there aren't any Vashta Nerada lurking nearby."

"Come again?"

"Vashta Nerada. They're living shadows, with an insatiable appetite for human fle—"

"That's not helping," Rory interrupted.

"No, I suppose not," admitted the Doctor. "Of course, if there _were_ Vashta Nerada here, they'd have stripped our skeletons bare by now. So, I'd say that we're safe."

"Well, _great_," muttered Rory sarcastically. Then he stopped walking. "Doctor? Did you say the mushrooms glowed blue?"

"Yes, Rory—why d'you ask?"

"Look down.

There, between two dark shapes that must've been Rory's feet, stood a cluster of wide-capped, electric blue fungi. He heard a sharp intake of breath that must have been the Doctor sniffing.

"Yep, they've got that light nutty scent, with just a hint of apricot. I'd say we found what we came for. Thank you, Rory Pond!" With that, the Doctor plucked two of the mushrooms and stuffed them in a pocket. "And now we can risk a light in this intolerable darkness."

Suddenly, in the Doctor's torchlight, Rory could make out the massive mossy tree-trunks like giants' legs, and in between the brambles and detritus littering the forest floor, and beside him, the tall, tweedy, floppy-haired form of the Doctor.

"That's better, eh? Here's a torch for you"—the Doctor tossed one to Rory—"and let's go back before anything bad can happen." He began traipsing back the way they'd come.

"Like what?" Rory tried not to sound apprehensive.

The Doctor stopped and sniffed at the wind. He seemed to be doing that a lot recently. "Like that."

"What? Doctor, I don't—"

"Shhh," the Doctor warned, pulling Rory behind a tree. He leaned closer and whispered. "Someone—or something—is between us and the TARDIS. I can smell it."

"Who? Someone friendly, maybe?" Rory sounded hopeful.

"Maybe. Let's find out!" announced the Doctor. "I have a plan."

"A good one?" asked Rory.

"Not really." And before Rory could open his mouth, the Doctor had leapt out from behind the trunk.

"Hello! I'm the Doctor," announced the Time Lord. "I bring peace…and Rory. Say hello, Rory!"

Rory poked his head around the tree. The Doctor's silly gamble had paid off, for the "someone" between them and the TARDIS looked like a friend—or, at least, wouldn't make a particularly formidable enemy. Wearing clothes little better than rags, with wild salt-and-pepper hair and a beard to match, and wielding an actual flaming torch, the man facing them would have looked more animal than man had it not been for the expression on his face—he looked bemusedly interested, possessed by an almost professorial curiosity. He, Rory decided, was an intellectual.

"Uh, hello." Rory raised his free hand in a none-too-confident gesture of friendship.

"You're the strangest spirits I've ever seen," said the man.

"What? Spirits?" asked the Doctor. Then he saw the torches both he and Rory were carrying. "Oh, these? No, no, they're just funny-looking tools, see? We're not ghosts. We're people." Rory noted the Doctor's careful avoidance of the word _human_.

The man eyed them closely. "Hmm, well, I'll take your word for it, I suppose," he answered. "But, then, what is a Doctor and his assistant doing in this dark forest during the witching hour?"

"I'm _not_ his assistant," Rory huffed.

"We're…exploring," The Doctor half-lied. "Doing some midnight botany, you know?"

"I see," said the man disbelievingly. "I don't suppose you know anything about that blue wooden box yonder." He pointed over his shoulder.

"Oh, actually, yes," said the Doctor cheerfully. "That's my, ah, equipment."

"So how did you transport it here? I didn't see any wagon tracks. No tracks except yours, actually. Do you mean to say it fell from the sky?"

"That's not the point," evaded the Doctor. "You know who we are, but I don't believe I know your name."

"Martin," answered the man gruffly.

"Well, Martin, I don't know about you, but Rory and I could use a hot drink. Do you live nearby?"

Martin looked like he was about to refuse, but then, slowly, a smile spread across his face, strained at first, but then startling in its authenticity. "Within a quarter kilometer" –here Rory knew the TARDIS was translating the distances for him—"to the west. I don't have much, since I live alone, but I do have some tea leaves and some water to boil."

"Great!" said the Doctor. "Let's go!"

As they meandered westward through the trees, Rory muttered to the Doctor under his breath. "Didn't you say the TARDIS has a Perception Filter? Why did that man notice the TARDIS, then? That's a bit odd, isn't it?"

The Doctor shifted uncomfortably. "That's the problem with the Perception Filter. I think I accidentally switched it off along with the TARDIS lamps. That'll be a wiring problem. I've been meaning to check."

"You made a mistake?" asked Rory, grinning.

"Turning off the Filter? I've done far worse," commented the Doctor. "Now, take that oil spill. Sometime back in the 21st century. Now, _that_ was a mistake. This, on the other hand, is just a slight misstep."

"_You_ caused an oil spill?"

"Me? No, not exactly. It was more the result of a discarded Warp Star, an unexpected island, and an enraged Great White. And whatever you might hear to the contrary, I did _not_ feed the shark jalapeno peppers."

Rory chose to move on with the conversation. "So, wait, tell me…why are we going to this Martin man's house?"

"Something's _off_ about this forest. Something's off about _him_," remarked the Doctor, nodding towards Martin's fire-lit silhouette. "And I need to find out what."

* * *

Author's Note: TBC!


	2. Tea and Twitches

Chapter 2: Tea and Twitches

Martin's house was nothing to look at. Granted, in the flickering torchlight Rory could barely see the front door, a slab of pitted and stained wood. It was unmistakably a hermit's abode. Martin sauntered up and pulled the latch on the door. Rory caught the sound of cogs turning, as if the old door had some secret inner locking mechanism. Then Martin pulled it open with only the softest of creaks.

"Wow," was all Rory could say.

Adorning the walls, the ceiling, and everything in between was an incredible collection of mirrors, ranging from the size of Rory's fist to ones that reached from the dirt floor to the wooden rafters.

"Just step through my workshop and I'll make us some tea," Martin was saying. "I still have some well-water left over from dinner."

The thought of drinking 16th-century unfiltered groundwater didn't sit particularly well with Rory, but he stayed silent.

"Is this all your creation, Martin?" asked the Doctor, eyeing his reflection in the nearest mirror.

"It's all very hush-hush," said Martin, rummaging through a cupboard. "Hah!" he cried victoriously, holding up a packet. "I knew I had tea leaves here somewhere. Anyway, I've been experimenting with glassmaking techniques to create reflective surfaces. My projects, as you can see, have been quite successful. The technique, though, is costly and difficult."

"Hmm," said the Doctor, now adjusting his bow tie. "The Venetians developed a method for manufacturing mirrors around this time. You're obviously not from Venice, though."

"Those _blasted_ Venetians," stormed Martin, brandishing a spoon, "keep their trade secrets locked up tighter than a treasure vault. Nobody should have a monopoly on knowledge. I did manage to discover their process for coating the glass, though. You can see the results." He waved the spoon in the general direction of the mirrors.

"So," said the Doctor, "that's why an intellectual such as yourself is pursing your work, isolated, in the middle of a forest. You don't want to be found out."

Martin looked uncomfortable. "Those Italians. I'm not exactly on their good side, and they're powerful. I had to run." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're not working for them, are you? You're dressed so outlandishly…"

Rory sniggered. "Who, the Doctor? He always dresses like that."

But Martin was staring at Rory's shirt. Rory looked down awkwardly to check what he was wearing.

"It's _plaid_," protest Rory. "It's not weird. It's just a plaid shirt. Perfectly normal. Not like tweed and bow ties."

"Normal?" asked Martin, passing around steaming teacups. "I've never seen clothing like yours before. Where are you from, exactly?"

"It's more a question of _when_ than _where_, actually," interjected the Doctor. "But rest assured that we're not working for anyone, let alone the Venetians. Load of Saturnyne fish-people." The Doctor shivered. "Anyway, what were you doing out in the forest at"—he consulted his watch—"4:13 in the morning?"

Martin sipped at his tea. "I found something a few days ago, while I was fetching water, poking out of the soil. At first I thought it was a rock outcrop, but after excavating it some more, I uncovered an arm. A stone arm. Then, when I returned to the area yesterday, it was gone, so I went back an hour ago to investigate. I dug a hole five feet deep and found that the soil had been disturbed, and whatever had been buried there had been dug out."

"Or pulled itself out," muttered the Doctor, draining his teacup in one heroic gulp.

"Doctor?" asked Rory. Amy had told him the story of the Byzantium, and what had stowed away within it. "You don't think it's an Angel, do you?"

Martin's hands were twitching so badly that the tea sloshed out of his cup. He set it down upon the counter before any more damage occurred. "You mean…you might know what is happening?"

"Maybe," said the Doctor, "but I'll need to look for myself. Can we see the site?"

"Of course," answered Martin, the glint of adventure in his eyes. "Follow me!"

* * *

Twelve Minutes Later

"I don't see anything," said the Doctor, brandishing his electric torch.

"'Course you can't," said Rory, "Everything's so dark!"

"No, come here, look!" The Doctor examined the ground. There's not a mark in the dirt. Nothing, 'cept our own footprints."

Martin furrowed his eyebrows in bewilderment. "But the hole was here! The arm was here, where I dug the hole. The spade was stuck upright in the ground right there." He pointed to a patch of soil nearby.

A whirry-whistly sound echoed around the trees as the Doctor examined the dirt with his sonic screwdriver.

"Sorry," he said, stowing the screwdriver back in his jacket. "There's no trace of any hole whatsoever." The Doctor stood and looked deep into Martin's eyes. "You, on the other hand, have a trace of something else. Those mirrors…what were they backed with?"

Martin looked bewildered. "They had a coating of quicksilver to create the reflective surface. Why?"

"Quicksilver. It's mercury," the Doctor explained to Rory. "And it has a nasty effect on humans. You've been having hand twitches lately?" the Doctor asked Martin, who nodded. "That's one of the early symptoms."

"Doctor, mercury also causes hallucinations," interjected Rory. "I learned that in medical school."

"Exactly, Pond," said the Doctor. "I'm sorry, Martin, but I think you were imagining things. There was no hole, no arm, no spade—just a fevered imagination. Quite excusable, of course, since you've had significant mercury buildup in your bloodstream. I might have a treatment back in my TAR—well, back in my box."

Martin looked dumbfounded. "You mean to say…the process, the mirror experiments…they poisoned me, made me have visions?"

The Doctor nodded. "I'm sorry."

As the Doctor launched into a detailed explanation of mercury toxicity in humans, Rory surveyed the ground once more. It looked perfectly norm—wait. A glint. Rory brought his torch closer.

"Doctor, look," said Rory. "It's a spade."

* * *

Author's Note: TBC!


	3. The Sleeping Angel

Chapter 3: The Sleeping Angel

"A spade?" asked the Doctor. He snatched the tool from Rory's hand, flipped it over, and gave it a lick. "Wood, iron scoop, significant oxidation, about twenty-three years old, and last used by something that wasn't human."

"Do you think it was a Weeping Angel?" asked Rory. The forest seemed infinitely creepier now. Rory could just imagine alien eyes peering out from the underbrush, waiting for him to turn his back, just for a second, or to blink.

"I dunno," said the Doctor. "I'm not sure what it tastes like, you see"—he indicated the licked spade—"since I've ever eaten an Angel before, nor do I plan to in the near future. But it tastes alien, and old."

_Sounds like someone I know_, Rory thought to himself.

"Doctor?" asked Martin. "That spade's not twenty-three years old. I got it from the local smith just last month. It's almost new."

"Well, that can't be," said the Doctor. "It's definitely twenty-three. Look at the rust! So that settles it. There's an Angel on the loose."

"How do you know?" asked Rory.

"Think, Pond. An Angel, buried here for millennia, in the middle of nowhere. Without any time energy to feed it, no higher life forms to feast upon, it starved and went into a sort of hibernation. But then the ground around it eroded, exposing just a finger or two. Then Martin here saw it, and excavated its arm. And sooner or later a squirrel might have scampered by to bury a nut, or a rabbit en route to its burrow. See, there's some fresh scat right here."

"Ew," said Rory.

"Anyway," continued the Doctor, "as soon as they came within arm's reach of the Angel, it inevitably zapped the rodents into the past so that it could feed off their time potential. For the most efficient energy-effort ratio, I'd guess it sent them to the early Jurassic, around the time of the first mammals. For all we know, they could _be_ the first mammals. Wouldn't that be odd? It'd definitely turn religion on its head. Imagine that—God is a Weeping Angel, and Adam and Eve are squirrels. What a cosmic letdown that would be."

"So the Angel woke up, didn't it? It dug itself free," continued Rory, determined to forestall the Doctor's rambling.

"Yes, it did," agreed the Doctor. "And then it covered its tracks. It filled in the hole, and sent the spade back in time using as much energy it could spare. Which, as you can see, wasn't very much. Just twenty-two years and eleven months. And even that didn't hide the spade well enough; we still found it. Which means"—the Doctor turned to face Martin—"I owe you an apology. You may be mercury-affected, but you weren't hallucinating."

"You're forgiven, Doctor," answered Martin. "But…this Angel…where will it go now that it's free?"

"Ah," said the Doctor, tossing the spade over his shoulder. "Good question. It's low on energy, obviously, which means it needs to feed. The best way to do this would be to obtain a large source of power, something nearby, something…" His face grew grim. "like us, for example."

Rory spun around, shining his torchlight into the woods, scouring the trees for anything resembling an Angel. There, behind a rotten log! A shape.

"Doctor!" called Rory, his voice high-pitched. "I think I saw something!"

The Doctor leapt over to Rory's location and pulled out his screwdriver. "Stay here, you two. I'll go investigate. In the meantime, keep your eyes open, eh?" With his sonic in one hand and the torch in the other, he advanced into the forest. Gradually his light was lost among the trees, and soon even the whirring of his sonic decayed into silence.

Rory felt singularly uncomfortable. He called, "Doctor! Don't leave us! What if the Angel comes back?" No answer. "Doctor? DOCTOR!" Nothing.

"_Behind you_!"

Rory yelped and turned around.

"Gotcha," said the Doctor, grinning mischievously.

"What did you find?" asked Martin. "Any sign of this Angel thing?"

"You could say so," said the Doctor. He looked strangely disheveled, as if he'd been waging war against some particularly thorny underbrush.

"So, what now?" prompted Rory.

"So...we wait!" said the Doctor, leaning against a mossy trunk. "Nothing else to do." He closed his eyes.

"We're in a forest, in the middle of the night, with a Weeping Angel on the loose, and you're going to _nap_?" asked Rory, incredulous.

"Eh, don't worry, we'll be fine," said the Doctor, eyes still shut. "We just need to wait fourteen more minutes."

"Doctor, I'm not following you. Wait for what?"

"Patience, Pond. In the meantime, pull up a log and take forty winks."

Despite all the fear Rory had felt that night, and the unease he felt that instant, he fell asleep almost as soon as he sat down.

* * *

"Oi, Pond, wake up!" Somebody was shaking him.

"Eh…what?" mumbled Rory, groggy. A rock dug into his left thigh, and he had a crick in his neck.

"Rory, where's Martin?" asked the Doctor. "I told you to stay alert. 'Keep your eyes open,' I said. Why does no one ever listen? And now you've nodded off, Martin's gone, and my TARDIS"—he paused for emphasis—"has vanished."

"_What_?" exclaimed Rory, jumping to his feet.

"Exactly," said the Doctor grumpily. "So would you mind explaining why, in a dark forest in the dead of night, with an Angel on the loose, you find it prudent to take a _nap_?"

"That's what _I_ told _you_!" huffed Rory. "You leaned against that tree," he pointed, "and fell asleep! I simply followed suit."

"I did nothing of the sort," protested the Doctor. "I just went to check on the TARDIS, and it had disappeared. I just got back. There wasn't a trace of the Angel."

"That's not what you told me."

"Hmm. Doesn't make any sense," said the Doctor. "You haven't been hallucinating, have you?" He aimed his screwdriver at Rory. "Nah, no mercury buildup. You're perfectly sane. Which means something unusual is happening. I'll just add that to the list of tonight's unexplainable events, shall I?"

There was something in the shadows. Something that hadn't been there before. Something that looked a lot like—

"Doctor, it's the Angel!" yelled Rory.

And then Rory did something he really shouldn't have done. He blinked.

And when he opened his eyes again, the Doctor had vanished. In his place, its stone arm outstretched in triumph, was the Weeping Angel.

* * *

Author's Note: Ooh, a cliffhanger! Don't worry, I'll update soon enough, I promise. In the meantime, thanks for reading!


	4. Doppelgangers

Chapter 4: Doppelgangers

If Rory had had laser vision, the Angel would have a pair of holes drilled through its forehead by now. He glared at the stone creature's hairline intently, determined not to blink. Nevertheless, panic took a hold of his mind. _My goodness_, thought Rory,_ the Angel just zapped the Doctor to who-knows-when and I'm all alone, stuck in the 1500's. What do I do now? WhatdoIdo whatdoIdo whatdo—_

"Hey! Fourteen minutes, right on the dot. Told you so."

"Doctor?" called Rory uncertainly, unwilling to break his gaze.

"Yep, Martin and I are here," said the Time Lord.

"You just got touched by the Angel. You disappeared," said Rory. "How can you be here?"

"Well, the Angel was starving. It didn't have enough energy to send a complex space-time event like me too far back in time. It just sent me back one week. So, I twiddled my thumbs for seven days waiting for the TARDIS to show up, and when it did, I programmed it for a little time-hop into the future. To keep it out of the Angel's hands, you see. Can't have a stone psychopath having access to a time machine! The TARDIS'll materialize at the crack of dawn, which gives us about two hours to neutralize the Angel."

"Wait…so that was _you_ earlier? In the woods? Future Doctor? You snuck up behind us, told me to take a nap, and stole off with Martin…and then the past Doctor showed up, and got touched? This. Is. Weird. Hold on, does that mean you haven't bathed in a whole week?" He eyed the Doctor's disheveled and dirt-stained clothes.

"Never mind that," shrugged the Doctor. "I just informed Martin of all the peculiarities of our little stone friends. Now, the Angel is fully energized, now, since it leeched off a week's worth of my time energy. We need to find out what the Angel's after. What does it want? Any ideas? Anybody?"

Martin butted in. "You told me that anything that holds the image of an angel becomes an angel. That's why we don't draw them, paint them, or look into their eyes, you said." The Doctor nodded. "Well, the Angel has been buried for millennia. It's lonely. Now that it's well-fed, it'll want to create more of its race, wouldn't it? And what would be a suitable place for it to create its own image, to create more of itself?"

It finally dawned upon the Doctor. "The _mirrors_! My goodness, it's going to stand in the mirror room, and its reflection will create more Angels than we could ever possibly hope to defeat. Brilliant deduction, Martin. I think I'll call you Magnificent Martin from now on."

Magnificent Martin beamed.

"But, Doctor, not to burst your bubble, but the Angel's right here," interjected Rory. "If we just keep staring at it, it's not going anywhere."

"Really, Rory? When was the last time you looked at it?"

_About the time I started thinking about the Doctor's hygiene_, Rory realized, horrified. He glanced back towards the location of the Angel.

It was gone.

"Aw, see, that's what happens when you don't keep yourself completely focused," lamented the Doctor. "Once your mind starts to wander, so do your eyes, and so does the Angel."

"But…it didn't attack us. It just left," observed Rory.

"That's not a good thing," said the Doctor. "That means it has more important business to attend to—namely, replicating itself. It's gone to the hut."

"How on Earth will we stop it now?" asked Rory. "The Angels move impossibly fast. We'll have no chance of catching up to it."

"Well," said the Doctor, "I have a way. Never fails. It's called…_running_! Come on!" he said, leaping through the trees. "Anyway, I had a week to spare. I've been busy preparing the Angel a few surprises."

"What sort of surprises?" asked Rory, sprinting behind the Doctor.

"I can answer that," said Martin, his torch flickering dangerously as he jogged to catch up to Rory. "I've been finding all sorts of strange traps laid in the forest over the last few days. I thought I was going mad. But it was _him_!" he said, nodding towards the Doctor.

"Of course, none of the snares I've set will hold the Angel for long," noted the Doctor. "But they should buy us some time. Case in point," he said, dodging the mutilated remains of a pit trap. "I can't believe the Angel actually fell for that one. A bit obvious, wasn't it? But it can't be far ahead now. Hurry!"

* * *

The next four minutes were a blur of pitfalls, panting, and pine trunks as Rory, Martin, and the Doctor sprinted towards the hut.

"Doctor," sputtered Martin between breaths, "if we turn slightly eastward here, we'll intersect a footpath that has a direct line of sight to my front door."

"Perfect!" said the Doctor. "So if the Angel tries to enter your home, we'll see it—and stop it—first. This way!" He dived right.

"Doctor, your _other_ East," corrected Martin.

"Oh, right! I mean, _left_!" The Doctor turned correspondingly.

Soon enough, the unsteady torchlight revealed the beaten earth of the footpath, and the trio picked up their pace. As the hut came into view, the Doctor smacked his torch with his palm, as if trying to coax all possible light from its bulb. As if by magic, the bulb doubled its output.

"Percussive maintenance. Never fails," commented the Doctor, illuminating the hut. "Hmm, that's odd."

"What?" Rory asked. "Everything looks perfectly normal. Look! The door's intact and everything."

"Yes, that's what so odd," answered the Doctor. "The house hasn't been broken into. That means one of two things. One: the Angel hasn't been here yet. Unlikely. Two: the Angel knew we were coming. We arrived just in time to prevent it from breaking in, so it's hidden itself, waiting for us to turn our backs, to lower our guard. That's when it'll strike."

Rory shivered. "And then, having gotten rid of us, it makes a thousand copies of itself." He imagined an angel, standing before a mirror, eyes shielded, and from the mirror, an angel bursting forth. "But, wait, Doctor, there's something else. Not a thousand copies. More. It can create an _infinite_ number of Angels! When I was little, I always used to take two mirrors and place them facing each other. Then I'd stand between them and look at my reflections, an impossible number of them, trailing off into the distance as far as I could see. An infinite series."

"_Ohhh_," said the Doctor. "A pair of mirrors, face-to-face, with an Angel in between! Infinite Angels. You're right, Rory. This is deadly serious. If the Angel enters that hut, it'll have enough companions to destroy…well, everything. Everything! It's imperative that we find that Angel right now."

Rory and Martin began encircling the hut, back-to-back, eyes peeled. The Doctor took guard at the door, torch and screwdriver in hand.

"If I were an Angel trying to gain access to the hut, I'd find a place close enough to keep an eye on us, but someplace we wouldn't look for it," said Rory. "Where would it hide? Someplace we wouldn't check."

"Yes," Martin agreed. "The forest would make an excellent hiding place, but it's also rather obvious, and makes it difficult to access the hut. So, if it's not in the forest, and not in the hut, where else might it be?"

The pair thought for a second, then looked at each other.

"_It's on the roof!_" they declared simultaneously.

"Come here," said Martin, "I repaired the thatching last week and never put away the ladder. You have the light, though, so you go first."

"Gee, thanks," muttered Rory under his breath, putting his feet on the bottom rung. One hand clutching the torch, the other pulling him up the ladder, he cautiously advanced upward. He kept the light fixed upon the straw thatching above him, determined to prevent the Angel from ambushing him.

Upon reaching the roof, he dug his heels into the straw, securing a foothold, and cautiously stood, keeping his arms out for balance. He swung the light around, scoping for a sign of the stone psychopath against the inky backdrop of the peaked roof, early-morning forest, and moonless sky. And then, ever so carefully, he inched his way around the rooftop to continue his search.

The thatching buckled dangerously as Martin followed Rory onto the rooftop.

"Whoa!" said Rory, swaying. "You'd better stay back. I don't think the roof can support us both."

"What, you'll go on alone? Is that a good idea?" asked Martin nervously.

"No, not really," Rory said, trying to disguise his own trepidation. _Oh, come on, Rory_, he thought. _Show some courage_. He opened his mouth.

"I've been a two-thousand-year-old Roman centurion," Rory asserted. "I've survived two world wars, death, the end of the universe, and the in-laws. I can handle this."

And with that, he bounded around the rooftop, wielding the torch like a gladius. The beam of his torch illuminated nothing but thatching. But wait! There, at the edge of his vision…was that an elbow? He edged closer.

Yes. A stone elbow, connected to a stone arm, a stone torso…a stone Angel.

Careful not to blink, Rory took another step closer. The roof creaked. Rory looked down to see the straw beneath him sinking ominously.

"Oh, no," said Rory, a moment too late. Then the thatching gave way, and he plummeted into the darkness beneath.

* * *

After a fall that seemed to last an eternity, Rory collided with a row of wooden shelves, crumpling in a heap on Martin's kitchen table. The world spun erratically around him.

"Rory!" The Doctor called, bursting in through the door. "You all right?"

"Stay back!" said Rory dizzily. "The Angel fell in here."

The Doctor waved his torch at something beyond Rory's vision, then laughed.

"Rory, you genius! You've done it!"

"I don't understand," mumbled Rory.

"C'mon, get up!"

As Rory stumbled to his feet, he saw what the Doctor was looking at. There, in the corner of Martin's kitchen, stood a pair of cracked mirrors, face-to-face. In between, arm outstretched, face contorted in fury, stood the Angel. Trapped.

Then Rory understood what had happened. Upon seeing the Angel, it had turned to stone, causing the roof to collapse. Rory had looked down in time to see it give way, allowing the Angel to unfreeze and lunge toward him. And then they'd both fallen.

"The Angel landed right between these mirrors?" asked Rory. "That's a coincidence."

"Nah, it was going to pummel through the ceiling to get to them; you stopped it right before it succeeded," answered the Doctor. "Congratulations, Rory. This little accident both saved your life and stopped the Angel. What's the phrase again? 'Killing two birds with one stone', I think. When the Angel fell, it was reaching for you instead of covering its eyes. Look! The Angel's staring straight at its reflection, and what's more, an infinity of reflections is staring straight back. Not only can it not duplicate, it can't even move. Ha!"

Rory breathed a sigh of relief and brushed wood dust from his shirt. "So, how do we dispose of it?"

The Doctor's eyes twinkled with the inklings of a plan. "Martin?"

Martin stuck his head through the hole in the roof. "My word, what have you done to my house?"

"Sorry about that! Anyway, get down here. I have a job for you."

* * *

As the dawn rose, Rory watched Martin pour molten glass over the eyes of the frozen Angel. Then came a layer of white-hot liquid metal, applied over the clear glass.

"Ta-da!" said the Doctor. "A mirror, enclosing the Angel's eyes. As long as the glass stays on, the Angel will never move. An inescapable prison. Now, let's haul it over to the TARDIS. It should materialize in four…three…two…"

The unmistakable _vworp_ of the spaceship's engines resounded in the forest.

"…one," finished the Doctor. "Ugh, I never _can_ get the timing quite right. Still, let's get the Angel in there. I'd like to get back Amy soon. She's still waiting for those mushrooms!"

Rory was rarely so excited. "Yes, of course! What are we waiting for?"

"Well, a strong pair of arms, if you don't mind," said the Doctor. "I'll carry the Angel's head if you take its feet. Martin…grab something in between."

With that, the three heaved the petrified Angel through the phone box door.

"Well, I'll be," said Martin, eyeing the TARDIS console. "Now I _know_ I'm hallucinating."

Rory tried to conceal a grin. Funny, seeing someone else's reaction to visiting the TARDIS. Not long ago, he'd been in Martin's situation. Minus the Angel, of course.

"It's my…ship," explained the Doctor. "Carries me to far-away places. But, before Rory and I leave to said far-away place, I have three things to give you. One: pills. Take two of these every day for a month. They'll treat your mercury poisoning." He rummaged through a compartment, fishing out a tiny glass bottle. "There you go. Two: book. I just happen to have a blank journal lying around. This is very important: in it, write down everything you've learned about the Angels. Who knows, it might save my life someday."

He handed Martin an ancient leather-bound book. "It was going to be my thousand-year diary, but I still haven't filled my nine-hundred one yet. So, keep it."

"My thanks," said Martin. Apparently, he'd long since decided against asking questions of the Doctor. _Smart_, thought Rory. _The Doctor's answers raise more questions than they answer._

"Three: advice. In all seriousness, Martin, you've got a rough journey ahead of you. Not many people will believe your story. Most of history will paint you as a hermit and a madman. But you know the truth, Martin, and my advice is to stick to it, no matter what."

Martin nodded. "You've done a lot for me, Doctor. In a single night, a world I thought was tiny, cruel, and futile became huge and full of spectacular mysteries. Thank you for these gifts, Doctor, but I think your biggest present was hope." He reached for the door. "'Til our paths cross again, then! Farewell."

As the TARDIS door shut behind Martin, the Doctor began throwing switches on the console, and Rory watched as the time rotor whirred.

"There we go," announced the Doctor. "A closed time loop. You see, Martin ends up writing the definitive book on the Weeping Angels, which, millennia later, falls into the hands of my younger self, at the crash of the Byzantium. That information saves my life and Amy's. Funny how things work, isn't it? And, speaking of time loops, I know just where we can dump that Angel." He nodded towards the stone creature leaned precariously against the wall, then flicked a lever triumphantly, making the time rotor grind to a halt.

"Welcome to the early Jurassic. Don't go outside."

"What? Why not?"

"Open the door."

Rory obediently threw the door open, and was promptly showered by sea spray. After clearing his eyes of the salty water, he peered around. The TARDIS was hovering a few meters above a crystalline blue ocean stretching from horizon to horizon, and an unbearably bright sun glistened overhead.

"Central Europe in the Jurassic was mostly underwater," explained the Doctor. "I expect that when the Angel sent those poor rodents back in time, they were sent someplace North, like Russia. Someplace dry. It wouldn't have much potential energy to feed on if the animals lived for just a few minutes! Anyway, watch out for the plesiosaurs. They're rather curious, and being three or so meters long with large teeth makes curiosity a dangerous thing." The Doctor jumped over to the Angel. "Help me haul this thing out, would you?"

"We're going to drop it outside?" asked Rory, grasping its stone feet.

"Certainly!" said the Doctor. "Imagine. The Angel rests on the seabed for several million years, becoming a part of the bedrock. And then, when the seas recede, forests will grow here, and sooner or later, a hermit named Martin will traipse over the soil and stumble across a stone hand poking out of the dirt. By then, the mirrors over the Angel's eyes will have eroded, and it'll escape. But our past selves will be there to stop it. Voila! Full circle."

The duo finally heaved the Angel through the TARDIS door. With a satisfying splash, the statue cannonballed into the sea, and after the bubbles had cleared, not a trace of its existence remained.

"Good riddance!" remarked the Doctor. "Now, let's get back to Amy."


	5. Epilogue

Epilogue

As the Doctor finished landing the TARDIS, he gave Rory a brief lecture. "Now, remember, while we're picking up Amy, don't call me 'Doctor,' just like before. Call me John."

"Yeah, that's something I don't really understand," said Rory. "Why can't we use your name? Does Mrs. Smith-Jones know you or something?"

"Or something," said the Doctor, ushering Rory out the TARDIS door and into a forgotten corner of the London Underground.

"Well, that clarifies everything," said Rory.

"Sorry, it's complicated," the Doctor explained unhelpfully. "Yes, she knew me, but she doesn't now. And it's probably best that we keep it that way. Now, down these stairs, if you don't mind."

The pair descended the damp concrete stairs in silence, except for the faint buzzing and flickering of the fluorescent light overhead. At the bottom was an alcove, just large enough for a beaten-up metal door, upon which the Doctor knocked four resonating times. And then the door creaked open, and there was the face of Mrs. Smith-Jones with a grin that could light up the whole world.

"Oh, hello! It was John, wasn't it? Come in!" She propped the door open with her heel, allowing her visitors to pass. She looked at Rory. "Sorry, but I forgot your name," she said.

"It's Rory, Mrs. Smith-Jones," he said, trying not to feel too hurt.

"Right! Please, call me Martha. Anyway, Rory, your wife's been fine with me, just like I promised." Martha led them through a dank-looking conference room and into a corridor. "The flu's no fun, but I think she's been handling it well. Amy's in my spare room. I hope you don't mind the accommodations too much; this is our base of operations. Believe it or not, this location is perfect. It's right in the heart of all the action—we're always keeping busy. So much _stuff_ happens down here that nobody above ground ever notices. Impossible stuff, you know? Stuff you wouldn't believe."

"Oh, I don't know," argued Rory, quietly.

"Anyway," continued Martha, "my husband, Mickey, and I have had a rather hectic life lately, but it's always fantastic to have visitors. You know, Amy's told me all sorts of stories."

The Doctor looked startled. "About what?"

"Well, she told me that she lost her mum and dad when she was little, and that you reunited them," Martha told the Doctor. "She thinks of you as a hero, you know. And you, Rory! Amy said the last time she got hurt, you waited by her side for, quote, 'what seemed like millennia'. She's lucky, Rory, to have such a good husband."

And for the first time that night, Rory beamed.

"Hey, careful there, sweetheart, or I might feel jealous," came a teasing voice from behind. A man ducked between Rory and the Doctor to give Martha a peck on the cheek.

"Rory, John, this is Mickey," introduced Martha. She stopped in front of a door. "Well, this is Amy's room. How about you all wait here and I'll check if she's awake?" She edged through the door and shut it quietly behind her.

Mickey took initiative to strike up a conversation. "So, how did you find out about us? Did UNIT give you our information? We're not exactly advertising our location."

"Let's just say it was a mutual friend," answered the Doctor enigmatically.

"Oh, I get it," said Mickey. "Everything's hush-hush in this business. Secret locations, secret missions. I'm still not quite used to it." He stared absentmindedly at the doorknob. "I met a man once. Knew him for five years, and he never told me his real name."

Was Mickey talking about the Doctor? Rory was bursting with curiosity. "What happened?"

Mickey shrugged. "We went our separate ways, y'know? He set out to save the world, I set out to live my own life, and now look! I've got an important job, a fantastic wife, and all the time in the world to spend with 'er."

"So things turned out all right?" asked Rory. "After traveling with the Doctor?"

Mickey paused for a second. "Well, I can't say this life is easy. Living underground, mortal danger, cold tea"—Rory grimaced—"but I wouldn't have it any other way. Funny though, 'cause I don't remember telling you his name."

Rory's hurried glance towards the Doctor was enough to give it away. Mickey grinned.

"Oh! Hello, Doctor. Thought it might be you."

"Really?" asked the Doctor. "What gave it away?"

"Well, I could claim that it's my innate ability to read people, but then I'd be lying," said Mickey. "Actually, it was the clothes. Come on, the bow tie practically broadcasts 'Hey! Look at me! I'm an alien!'"

Martha poked her head around the door. "What was that, sweetie?"

The Doctor ducked out of Martha's line of sight and frantically gestured to Mickey to keep quiet.

"Aw, nothing, honey," said Mickey, forcing a casual tone.

Martha shrugged. "Anyway, Amy's awake! Come on in."

Rory swung the door open and ran to his wife, who sat quite contentedly on a couch, wrapped in a thick quilt. "Amy! How've you been?"

"Much better, now that you're back," said Amy, hugging him. "How was your trip? Did you get the mushrooms?"

"Got them right here," said the Doctor, pulling the wrinkled fungi from his pocket. "All we need to do is make a good pot o' tea from them and you'll be back on your feet in no time at all."

"Mmm, good," said Amy, pulling the quilt over her shoulders.

"Could you show me to the kitchen, Martha?" asked the Doctor, heading towards the door. "Let's get things boiling, shall we?"

Martha followed the Doctor out of the room, leaving Mickey, Amy, and Rory sitting in uncomfortable silence.

"So, the Doctor, huh?" said Mickey, staring at his toes. "Whatcha think, I mean, about traveling with him? Things can get pretty crazy when he's around."

"Yeah…crazy's a good word for it," said Rory.

"Wait, you know the Doctor?" asked Amy, perking up.

"Yeah," said Mickey, eyeing Amy. "I traveled with 'im a while ago. So did Martha. She had…a thing for him, for a time. She still has a spot in 'er heart for the Doctor. But he's changed, you see. The man she loved is gone. That's why the Doctor doesn't want her to know that he's come back, I think. She's said goodbye to him, and they went their separate ways. He doesn't want to spoil a good ending. It'd devastate her."

Mickey paused for a second. "Huh, I do seem to be telling you everything, don't I? Well, I'll tell you why. Traveling with the Doctor's amazing. Every time, every place, _everything_ is yours to explore. But it comes at a cost. Every trip you take challenges your view of the world, puts you in danger, gives you information you're not privy to. Your life'll change forever, I promise you that."

Rory looked deep into Amy's warm brown eyes. The Doctor had woven himself into Rory's life since he was a child. He remembered playing the Raggedy Doctor with Amy, the long afternoons spent in Leadworth Park fending off imaginary monsters. He remembered the friendship they'd formed then, and how that bond had blossomed. He remembered the Prisoner Zero incident and how he'd proposed to Amy not long afterwards. And he remembered how, after two millennia of waiting, they'd danced and smiled on their wedding night, together at last.

As the Doctor reentered the room bearing a pot of steaming tea, Rory took Amy's hand in his. "My life has already changed. It's changed for the better."

* * *

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed my first fanfic! Thanks so much to those of you who've posted reviews thus far. If you have anything to say, please don't hesitate to review!

Allons-y!


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